


Heartbeat

by courtneythenerd



Series: One More Second Chance [3]
Category: The Get Down (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Homelessness, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-01 02:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13285257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courtneythenerd/pseuds/courtneythenerd
Summary: The pain in his chest is a constant. And it's still the scariest feeling Napoleon’s ever felt.





	1. Run

**Author's Note:**

> It me, returning to you with another fic in my new angsty TGD series, where everyone gets a second chance after all hell broke loose at the end of part II. 
> 
> Napoleon's a character the show basically neglected, so I wanted to write something for him. This is that something. 
> 
> I'm letting you know now--I've been writing fanfic for a while and yet my grammar *still* sucks. So, yeah, that's a thing.

Napoleon’s heart is actually going to burst out of his chest one day.

He’d thought he’d be used to the pounding after all these years. If Napoleon thinks about it, he really can’t remember a time where his heart was calm and he didn’t think he’d pass out from how hard it’s beating. It’s in constant motion; it’s always beating the inside of his rib cage, threatening to crack the bones there and impale itself.

The pain in his chest is a constant. And it's still the scariest feeling Napoleon’s ever felt.

Napoleon can’t show that, though. He has to stay cool on the outside if he wants to make sure his heart keeps beating at all.

Every time he’s lost his cool, he’s nearly died. Or he’s gotten someone else killed.

**

_Run. She’ll kill you if she finds you._

Napoleon hadn’t needed to see anything else.

He’d grabbed anything that looked like it might’ve been his and left.

He’d run out of the temple and didn’t look back, not once, keeping his eyes as focused on the street ahead of him as he could.

Napoleon had run and run and run, dropping shit as he forced himself away from the only shelter he’d had in over a fucking year.

He’d kept Shao’s chicken-scratch note with him, letting it get torn and tattered, but never lost.

Napoleon had almost forgotten how it felt to run. He didn’t like the reminder.

**

The only thing worse than being reminded of how it feels to be on the run is being reminded of what it meant to actually sleep on the fucking streets.

Ducking in and out of the abandoned buildings that liter the Bronx, hoping there’s no other bums or cops or perverts inside. Having random aches and pains and bruises from sleeping on actual fucking concrete and sharp bits that he prays aren’t broken pipes leftover from some crackhead.

Getting dirty. Looking and smelling and _feeling_ dirty. It’s amazing how easy it is to get used to being clean.

That’s the one thing he remembers he and Viejo actually agreeing on: needing to stay clean for a while. Viejo would crawl out of his skin whenever he got too much dirt on his skin.

When Napoleon was around 9 and Viejo was 14, he told Viejo that it shouldn’t matter because his brown-ish-colored skin made him _always_ look dirty. Viejo beat him so badly that Napoleon lost consciousness.

When he woke up, he knew to never make any comment like that again.

**

Hours, days, weeks. Months. The streets change with the rising and falling of the light. Harrison becomes West Burnside becomes Jerome. Becomes 179th which takes Napoleon all the way down to a _huge_ street.

Napoleon kicks himself when he ends up on the busiest, most open street in all of West Bronx in the middle of the fucking day. It’s the surest way to get the wrong person’s attention. The Savage Warlords still exist, and time doesn’t kill the hatred that is harbored in fucked up hearts.

Not to mention the fact that he could get run the fuck over at any moment.

So Napoleon hides out in one of the husks that line the street during the day, climbing up raggedy ass stairs and bunching himself up into a small ball on the 12th floor. He's a little bit lucky on this street: most of the abandoned buildings still have water so he doesn't dry up or have to live like walking pile of dirt.

Napoleon watches the sun creep down until it finally give way to the moon.

The first night on the Big Street  is the hardest.

In the darkness, he hears the sounds of drug deals and gross johns all around him and he pretends that this isn’t his fucking life right now. He rocks himself back and forth, hugging his knees to his chest, humming one of the songs the Get Down Brothers used to make.

Napoleon’s chest doesn’t hurt so much this way. It still hurts, of course. It always hurts. But it’s a little bit better.

**

The Internationale. That’s the one Napoleon hears the most often. It was their last one. And their best. Napoleon reminds how perfectly Shao spun that night, spinning because he knew his life depended on it. Ra became a real leader that night, a true MC as he stood in front of the crowd telling their story. Zeke, his eyes burning and his voice fierce, spit like Napoleon never heard him.

But Boo. Boo was the best. Boo was always the best. Calling Boo a prophet was an understatement if you asked Napoleon. Boo couldn’t just see the future: he _was_ the future. Napoleon could look at Boo and see a thousand possibilities, all of them good, all of them real.

Napoleon had never met anyone like Boo before if he thinks it about it: someone in the streets, but still full of light and hope and joy. Someone who could from completely earnest and deadly determined to silly and playful in an instant. Someone who could see the worst and yet still fight for the best.

Napoleon had never met someone who was so much like him and yet completely different at the same time.

Napoleon thinks about the first time Boo cut his hair, right after Shaolin had decided that the Get Down Crew needed an “official”  record boy.

Napoleon had nearly made himself sick up until that point: he didn’t know what they were going to do to him.

It was all so fucking weird at that point: Shao had told Boo to beat Napoleon, and Napoleon had cried and begged. (He’s still so fucking embarrassed by that. ) Napoleon just knew they’d kill him after he ratted on Wolf.

But Boo wouldn’t do it.

And then Shao did a 180. Let Napoleon stay in his house, made him a part of his crew. Let Napoleon touch the records he’d been enviously eyeing as he stared through the window of the temple, right across from the rooftop he’d been crashing on.

He’d been staying on that rooftop for _way_ too long; he broke his own rules. But, if he hadn’t stayed, they would’ve never found him. And he wouldn’t have met Shaolin, or Ra, or Zeke or Dizzee. Or Boo.

**

It was Boo’s idea to cut Napoleon’s hair, actually.

“Because people will recognize you with all of that hair.”

Napoleon had been expecting the words “ratty” or “mess” to come out of Boo’s mouth. But they didn’t.

Boo had been careful. Almost weirdly careful, actually. He’d washed Napoleon’s hair for him, managing to actually get it all clean. He wasn’t disgusted or annoyed; Boo actually seemed to like it.

Boo had shrugged when Napoleon looked up at him in confusion.

“My mama’s a hairdresser.”

And, from across the room, Shaolin had barked out a laugh. Napoleon would’ve laughed too if he hadn’t still  been so nervous and disorientated. None of this had made any sense to him at all. But Napoleon was too relieved, scared, and tired to say anything.

So he let Boo gently cut his hair while Shaolin cooly discussed plans for making sure Napoleon stayed out of the Savage Warlord’s line of sight. Boo and Ra kept interjecting with their own ideas, talking like Napoleon hadn’t terrorized them and their friends a few years ago as a Junior Warlord. And Napoleon had let it all happen.

Boo had run his fingers through Napoleon’s now chin-length hair when he was done with the cut. Napoleon had let that happen, too.

**

A cold wind starts to blow, and Napoleon commits his first crime since the night Viejo died.

It’s nothing too major: he steals an expensive jacket from some drunk john visiting the beat girl that works on the floor beneath Napoleon’s. She’s the only other person who comes in this building that Napoleon’s been squatting in for a few weeks; she’s nice. Smiles at him. Sometimes shares food with him.

Napoleon waits until the john is staggering down the street. He doesn’t want the man thinking he was ripped off by the girl.

Napoleon follows the man down the street for a couple of blocks, making sure to keep a good distance away. The john’s jacket is slung over his shoulder; he’s gotten hot from the liquor and high of being able to purchase love whenever he wants.

After the man reaches the end of the block, Napoleon breaks into a run and body-checks him, making sure he slams into the man as hard as he can.

It makes Napoleon’s shoulder hurt like hell, but it also knocks the man flat on his face. Napoleon whips around, snatches the jacket off or the ground, and runs down the street as fast as he can. His heart pounds as he pushes himself further and faster.

Napoleon makes a sharp turn and makes a mad dash across the street, praying he reaches the median before a taxi comes outta nowhere and runs his ass over. He reaches the median and, after catching his breath for a few seconds, makes another mad dash, making his way to the other 179th street.

He runs and runs, hitting a hard right. Napoleon runs and runs before he somehow trips over his own fucking feet and falls down _hard_ on his face.

His mouth fills with blood, and his entire front hurts like he’s been shot. Napoleon needs to get up, to keep _moving_ , but everything hurts and he _can’t_.

In Napoleon’s mind, Viejo stands over him, furious, pointing a loaded gun to the back of his head.

“Get the fuck up, you fucking faggot!” his brother’s memory yells.

Napoleon remembers the terror and humiliation of his brother pointing a gun at him; no matter how often Viejo did it, Napoleon managed to be scared. Viejo could get Napoleon to do nearly anything anytime he had a gun. Napoleon would beg for his brother to not hurt him while also silently begging him to just fucking _do it_ already. Shoot him! Kill his ass so he doesn’t have to deal with this shit anymore! Set him free of this!

But Viejo’s dead now. And the gun in Napoleon’s mind can’t do anything to do him.

So he lies there for a moment, his face bloody, his body spread out on the sidewalk of a surprisingly empty street.

Eventually, Napoleon manages to crawl into the abandoned building directly next to him, kicking the door closed behind him. He curls up on the floor of the building, covering himself with the stolen jacket.

**

Napoleon sleeps all day. Dreams of himself in another world. A world where he’s free, where his chest doesn’t hurt, and he hasn’t cracked a rib or two. A world where he’s Shaolin Fantastic’s record boy, listening to amazing sound and watching bright colors paint the sky.

A world where Boo Kipling gently touches his neck and shoulders. Where Boo spreads his hand across Napoleon’s chest and puts his face into the crook of Napoleon’s neck.

Where Napoleon could’ve leaned up and kissed Boo without hearing his brother call him a faggot or feeling his brother’s foot on his chest, pressing down until all Napoleon can feel his heart beating too fast.

Napoleon sleeps all day for several days, fading in and out, his body numbing to the cold.

**

_Crack!_

The noise startles Napoleon, forcing his foggy mind to begin to clear. He sits up as far as he can, looking around at the raggedy building around him.

_Bam! Bam! Crack!_

The door. The door that Napoleon had somehow managed to shut before he curled into a ball. It’s stuck. Someone’s trying to get in.

Napoleon crawls backwards, pushing himself further into the building. He doesn’t have a weapon, and he still can’t quite move right. Napoleon’s weak and tired and in pain and someone’s trying to get in.

Without warning, the entire door is taken off of its hinges and tossed onto the ground behind the intruder.

Napoleon opens his mouth--to curse or scream--and feels his eyes go wide. But then he recognizes the concerned-looking man standing in front of him, his eyes lingering over the man’s flashy clothes and jewel-studded headband.

“Shit, babe,” Carlo Pakoussa says. He takes two giant steps to Napoleon and crouches down to his level. “You need help.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Anyone with eyes can see Napoleon’s fucked up.

But Napoleon nods anyway.


	2. Stay

“I can’t stay long.”

It hurts to talk.  Napoleon hasn’t said more than a few words at a time in . . . shit, Napoleon doesn’t  _ know _ how long it’s been. He didn’t know your throat could start to hurt after not using your voice for so long. His words come out as painful croaks. 

But Pakoussa just nods and pushes another gigantic glass of water towards Napoleon. Napoleon and Pakoussa are sitting at Pakoussa’s dining room table, with Napoleon damn near swaddled in a spare robe Pakoussa left for him to wear after Napoleon got out of the shower. 

Napoleon accepts the glass, greedily gulping it down. Napoleon didn’t realize just how bad off he’d been until now. 

“I figured,” Pakoussa says, his voice soft and kind watching Napoleon. “You look like you been running for a while. You in trouble?”

Napoleon nods, but then frowns. 

“I . . .  _ was.  _ For a while. A lady looking to kill me, plus a gang,” Napoleon mumbles, wincing in pain. “But . . . I really don’t know now? I mean, I don’t know how long . . .”

How long he’s been on the run. Days became weeks became months became .  . . how many months, though? How long has it been, really? It’s amazing how little time means when you’re scared for your damn life. 

Before Napoleon can even begin to explain all of this, he starts to cough. Hard. Napoleon coughs so hard his entire body moves. His whole chest rattles as he slams his hand over his mouth.

Pakoussa frowns even deeper. Napoleon didn’t even realize it was possible.

“If that cough doesn’t get better after a few days and some syrup, I’m taking you to the hospital,” Pakoussa says. “You’ve been out there in all that shit for so long, I’m surprised you still living.” 

Napoleon wants to laugh; no one is more surprised that Napoleon is alive than Napoleon. But the idea of laughing makes Napoleon feel tired. Maybe he  _ does  _ need to go to the hospital. Lord knows there’s no way to afford it, though. 

There never was, even when he his brother were kids. They couldn’t even really afford shoes, so how in the hell would they’ve afford a trip to somebody’s hospital?

It was just them and their mom until she disappeared. He and Viejo had different dads, but it’s not like either of them were any use to them. They had no grandparents that Napoleon knew of. So it was just them and their, in a ratty apartment that she didn’t come home to one day. 

Napoleon doesn’t realize that he’s spaced out until he feels Pakoussa gently touch his arm.

“You still with me, Napoleon?” Pakoussa’s warm voice brings Napoleon back to the present. 

“Huh? Oh! Um, sorry, I . . .” 

Napoleon has no idea what he was about to say. He looks down at his hands, suddenly feel very young and very small. 

Pakoussa squeezes his arm. There’s not nearly enough force to hurt Napoleon or even make him uncomfortable. Napoleon looks up at Pakoussa, and Pakoussa smiles at him.

“Look, I know you  _ said  _ you gotta move,” Pakoussa says, “but winter comes  _ fast _ around here, sugar. There’s no reason for you to be living on the streets in the damn cold.”

“I’ve done it before,” Napoleon says defensively. It’s  _ stupid _ ; it’s really stupid for him to be trying to argue with Pakoussa right now. But he can’t help it. 

But Pakoussa isn’t offended, doesn’t get mad or anything. He just levels Napoleon with a  _ look _ . It’s a “Boy, be for real, I’m trying to make sure yo’ ass doesn’t freeze to death” look. 

“I have an extra room,” Pakoussa says firmly. “Couple of them, actually. And I’ve never been one to send somebody out in the cold. Got it?”

Napoleon looks at Pakoussa, skepticism starting to nag at him.

“I don’t have anything to give you,” he tells Pakoussa. “I don’t have any money or anything, so I mean--”

“Did you  _ ask  _ you for anything?” Pakoussa raises an eyebrow at Napoleon, leveling him with a sharp look. “I don’t recall wanting anything from you, child.” 

Napoleon blinks at Pakoussa a few times. There’s still this voice in the back of his head, telling him that eventually Pakoussa will surely want  _ something _ that Napoleon won’t be able to give him. And then he’ll be back on the streets and maybe he won’t be so lucky this time around. 

Everything good ends eventually, and it ends horribly.

But Pakoussa is right. Winter comes fast. 

**

Pakoussa’s club is just as crowded in January as it was in November, when Pakoussa first took Napoleon in. 

It’s kind of amazing; Napoleon has never met so many people like this so much. So many queer people. So many people who are  _ comfortable  _ being queer. It’s...strange, but it’s cool. 

The people are really nice. The nicest people Napoleon’s ever met, actually.

Napoleon doesn’t  _ have  _ to work at Pakoussa’s. Pakoussa’s said so a thousand times. As a matter of fact, the first few weeks that Napoleon was staying with him, Pakoussa would barely let Napoleon move around. He was still worried that Napoleon was sick or something. 

Which . . . well, Napoleon couldn’t get too mad about that. 

It’s really nice to have someone care about you, especially after . . . it’s just that Napoleon had been trying to make himself used to not cared for. Or loved. 

Because the last time he got that close with someone--the last time he felt really held by someone--that person ended up in jail, and the other had to go work for a monster and the others were just gone. 

And Napoleon always thought that was his own fault, that he shouldn’t have been trying to get used to having  _ that  _ anyway. 

It’s taken him a while to get used to Pakoussa just plain being kind and not wanting Napoleon to die. Just like it’s taken a while for Napoleon to get used to be around so many men who like men. Like Napoleon does.  

Napoleon remembers the first time he realized that he liked boys and not girls. 

His brother had a partner; a senior Warlord who was in charge of the kids on the corners. His name was Axe; he had deep, dark-brown skin and a wicked smile and a deep laugh and Napoleon might’ve loved him from the moment Viejo first brought him around. Axe was unexpectedly nice, and Napoleon would volunteer to help him out on missions. 

Well, at some point Napoleon’s brother figured out that Napoleon had a thing for Axe and told Napoleon that he’d beat him to death if he ever found out that Napoleon had “tried something” with someone, especially Axe. He kept yelling at Napoleon, telling him that he was a sick fucking faggot. Napoleon had cried and it only made his brother even more furious. 

Napoleon had just wanted to forget about it. Forget about Axe and the way the light in his eyes made Napoleon feel. He just wanted to take whatever was in him that made him this way out--reach down and rip out and burn it. 

But he couldn’t. Napoleon thought he had. But he never could, because years later he’d meet Boo-Boo Kipling and feel that  _ same  _ feeling, only a thousand times worse. 

Because Napoleon loved Boo-Boo Kipling in a way that didn’t even make sense to Napoleon.  He loved Boo despite everything in him, all the voices that told him to never love someone ever again. Napoleon had fallen too quickly and too recklessly, and he couldn’t even bring himself to care. Boo--his voice, his face,  _ him _ \--was the only thing that could dull the pain in Napoleon’s chest. 

Napoleon can never forget about Boo. No matter how it all ended, he can never forget about Boo. 

A bright green light suddenly shines, nearly blinding Napoleon with its brightness. Napoleon blinks back to reality and watches the patrons. It bathes everyone in the club, turning all the brown and black skin to green. 

Pakoussa plays one of his remixes and the whole crowd loses their mind in one voice. 

**

There are some things about Napoleon that will probably never change. The fact that he can never sit still is one of them. 

It’s the first hot day of the “spring,” and they’re both a little stir-crazy. Pakoussa goes on whatever missions he and his partners go on. And Napoleon would’ve tried to stay at home . . . until the sun came out in full force. Napoleon’s legs had started to twitch, and he  _ had  _ to move. 

Napoleon walks without thinking. And he walks without running. 

And, for the first time in a while, his heart beats lightly. 

Napoleon walks around the west Bronx without a target on his back. He goes to the park and lies down on the flat rocks and lets caress his buzzed head. 

Napoleon can probably lie there for hours and hours. But he’s  _ antsy  _ today.

So he gets up and keeps walking, letting his legs walk him through the hood that he used to swear would kill him one day. Napoleon passes parks and playgrounds and kids playing in the streets. 

He passes everyday people, and, in the middle of all this, thinks that life could’ve been so much easier if a few grown-ups had made different choices when Napoleon was a child. If there were no drugs, or gangs, or people who hate people just because they don’t like girls. 

He wonders how it feels to truly be  _ free _ . 

Napoleon doesn’t realize where he’s going until he actually gets there. 

Les Inferno looks far less threatening more than a year later, in the bright daylight. From where Napoleon’s standing on the curb, it just looks like a club. It doesn’t look like the place that killed his brother, the place that put Napoleon on the run. The place where Shaolin was trapped and nearly got all of the Get Down Brothers trapped, too. It just looks like a club. 

Napoleon . . . he waits for the fear, the fight or flight instinct that he thinks has kept him alive for so long. But it never comes. 

It looks like it’s just a club because it  _ is  _ just a club. Without the monstrous people, the guns, and the terror, Les Inferno really is just a club. 

Napoleon closes his eyes. He lets every memory wash over him. Napoleon’s caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to cry. 

Napoleon hears Boo’s voice call  his name on the soft, warm wind. He snorts to himself, keeping his eyes closed. Damn, Napoleon knew he was in love, but now he’s starting to go a little crazy, isn’t it?

But then he hears it again. Louder, firmer. And he feels a warm hand hesitantly touch his arm.

“Napoleon? That you?” Boo’s voice, deeper than before but still very much the same.

Napoleon opens his eyes. 


	3. Another World

Napoleon would not think Boo’s real if Boo weren’t standing here with the same look on his face. If they weren’t standing here staring at each other like they’d both seen ghosts. 

Napoleon stares at Boo’s big brown eyes, and he feels so much that it’s overwhelming. He could honestly fall over from the weight of his emotions. Shock, surprise, confusion, hope.

Boo blinks. A faint red tints his cheeks, and it’s distracting. 

The last time Napoleon saw Boo blush, it was because Napoleon couldn’t stop babbling about Boo’s dancing. Napoleon had wanted to kick himself, becoming more embarrassed with each compliment that fell out of his mouth. But Boo had blushed and laughed, and it had been okay.

Boo slowly wraps his fingers around Napoleon’s wrist again, tenderly touching Napoleon as if he thinks he’ll disappear. Then Boo grins widely, his eyes shining bright.

**

“Yo, can we  _ slow down  _ a little bit?” 

Napoleon’s breathless; he really shouldn’t even be trying to talk, let alone laugh while talking. But the way Boo is pulling Napoleon down the streets while running at top speed is funny. Pretty much  _ everything  _ is funny right now. 

“Nope!” Boo calls, just as breathless and giddy. “We gotta keep moving!”

“Why, Boo?!” He says his name aloud. He says it aloud because Boo can hear him, can see him say it. Napoleon chuckles again for no real reason. “Where we going?!” 

Boo snorts, but finally slows to a stop. Napoleon and Boo move out of the middle of the sidewalk, leaning against the nearest building. 

Boo smiles at Napoleon, and Napoleon wants to kiss him. Kiss him on the lips in the middle of the street like no one would see. 

“You’re so fucking tall now, man,” Boo says, his voice full of awe. He slowly looks Napoleon up and down, moving his eyes in a way friends don’t tend to. 

“M-me?  _ I’m  _ tall? You look like someone  _ stretched _ you, Boo.”

“No, I don’t. Because if they stretched me, I wouldn’t have  _ these _ .” Boo flexes hard, giving Napoleon a cheeky grin. 

They break into new rounds of laughter. Napoleon’s whole body shakes, and nothing hurts right now. 

“So you still a fool, huh?” Napoleon manages when his laughter finally dies down. 

Boo’s eyes light up. 

“Absolutely.”

**

It’s funny: when Napoleon first met Shaolin, he was scared shitless. 

Even after Shaolin had warmed up to him and was being really nice, Napoleon was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, because he’d never been in a situation where the other shoe  _ didn’t _ drop. 

It was only over time that Napoleon was able to finally let his guard down around Shao. And even after that, he never really did see Shao as his equal. Shao was basically the big, cool brother Napoleon wished Viejo could’ve been. The one Viejo might’ve been in another life. 

Napoleon had wanted to be cool like Shaolin was. 

Well, neither of them are being very cool right now. Boo drags Napoleon into Shao’s new place, and Shao’s jaw hits the floor. 

They crash into each other with a clumsy hug, and, really it should’ve hurt. 

They don’t ever really break apart. Shao still holds Napoleon by the shoulders, even as he takes a step back to look at him. 

“What the  _ fuck,  _ Poleon? You grown as hell.”

Boo walks over and drapes his arms around both men’s necks, pulling them close together. 

“Now, Shao, you said that about me, too,” Boo says. “So I’m starting to think that yo’ ass is just shrinking.” 

And Shao yells at Boo to shut up and Boo cackles. And Napoleon watches them.

**

“You better than me, Poleon, because I couldn’t have stayed on that big ass street.”

Napoleon nearly chokes on his orange juice and looks up at Boo. Boo and Shao are squished together on Shao’s couch, while Napoleon’s sitting on the floor, his body leaning on Boo’s legs. Napoleon leans his cheek against Boo’s knee. 

It should be weird, with all the time that’s passed and just how close they are now, how much they’re touching. It should be weird.

“Hold up,” Napoleon says, squinting his eyes at Boo, “I know that’s not coming from the dude that was in  _ jail  _ for a year. Ain’t that a lot worse?”

Boo shakes his head. “Can’t be. At least I had a shelter, got fed and everything. I mean, being inside was nerve-racking as fuck, but I can’t imagine having to go from busted building to busted building and hoping no one else is there.” 

Napoleon sighs, then shrugs. He finds himself looking at the floor, remembering the feeling of cold brink pressed against his back. 

“I mean . . . it was . . . fucking awful, yeah,” Napoleon mutters. “And I was sick or something for most of the time. But I survived. I was by myself for a really long time before Pakoussa showed up outta nowhere. I managed to get through it.” 

Napoleon looks back up at Boo to find Boo staring back at him with an intense, sad look on his face.

“But you were pretty bad off, though. What would you have done if Pakoussa hadn’t showed up?” Boo asks earnestly.

Napoleon tenses all over. He thinks about being covered up with a stolen coat, inside of an abandoned building, too hurt to even move right.  It had been like he could  _ feel  _ death hovering over him, irritated that it’d missed him so many other times. 

“I . . . don’t know,” Napoleon mumbles his answer. 

He can feel Boo and Shaolin stare at him. 

“I don’t know what would’ve happened. I like to think that I would’ve made it, but, like you said, I was bad off,” Napoleon continues.

Napoleon sighs, and it comes out shakily. He didn’t realize just  _ thinking _ about being homeless would make him so tired and jittery. Napoleon feels some of that old fear creep back up on him, and something in his stomach flutters. 

Napoleon leans his head against Boo’s knee again and closes his eyes.

“But I’m okay now,” Napoleon says with certainty. “I’m good.” 

“You promise?” Shao demands. “Because you know, if you ever need anything . . . like,  _ ever _ . . .”

Napoleon opens his eyes and gives them a small smile.

“I know.” 

Napoleon feels Boo shift, and the movement pulls him from his reverie.

“Stop looking at us like that, Shao,” Boo says firmly. 

Napoleon looks up to see Shao looking a little nauseated.

Shaolin shrugs, but it’s the most disingenuous shrug Napoleon’s ever seen. Shao tries to smile at them, but that also comes off wane and downright depressed.

“I can’t help it,” Shao says softly. “You know that. I mean, if y’all hadn’t met me--”

“I don’t think  _ you  _ were the problem, Shaolin,” Napoleon interrupted. “Annie’s evil ass was.”

“He knows that,” Boo tells Napoleon, cutting his eyes at Shao. “He just hasn’t forgiven himself yet. He’s still kicking his own ass.”

“Wow, I did not think this was about to be some kinda psychotherapy session,” Shaolin responds. 

“Well, nigga, it’s not like we don’t  _ all _ need one,” Boo retorts. “Especially after all this shit we went through.” 

“You trying to send me to shrink, now? Because I’ll find Dizzee and have him do some of him ‘cleansing’ shit on you. How you like that?” 

“You say that like he wouldn’t immediately want to fix you.” 

Shao stammers, and Napoleon giggles.

“Y’all are stupid,” Napoleon says serenely. 

**

Boo insists on walking Napoleon back to Pakoussa’s. 

They bump arms and tangle their fingers together the whole time. 

And they talk.

**

“Ra looked like he’d seen a ghost when I came home.” 

“Really? He hadn’t seen you . . . at all? The whole time.” 

“Nope. Not once. And then he tried to avoid me when I got home. And then he broke down and cried. It got real awkward after that.”

**

“Viejo was a fucking monster, Boo. Like .  . I can’t even tell you all that he did.” 

“I almost wish he was alive, so I could smack the shit outta him.”

“Boo, you don’t fight. You didn’t even want to hit _ me. _ ”

“ _ You  _ hadn’t done anything. That nigga did. So he gets smacked!”

**

“Why don’t you have hair?”

“Boo, what are you talking about? I definitely have hair.”

“Yeah, but it’s nearly buzzed, though! It makes ya head look funny.”

“First off, I cut it off when I moved in with Pakoussa. Second off, fuck you. You got hair growing  _ all over  _ yo’ head.”

“I’mma tell you like I told Shao--ain’t no barbers in jail!” 

“Okay, but Yolanda could cut it?”

“I don’t want her to! Why y’all on the fro? You never hated on Zeke’s. Or Dizzee’s.”

“What, you trying to get hair as big as Zeke’s?” 

“A man’s fro is his crown, Napoleon.” 

“Oh my God.” 

**

Pakoussa’s watching them through the peephole. Napoleon  _ knows  _ he is. Napoleon’s gonna have to explain exactly who Boo is and that yes, he’ll bring around the club sometimes and yes, he’ll let Pakoussa meet him. 

Napoleon can’t even be embarrassed by it. Not really. Pakoussa cares. And Napoleon can never repay him for that. 

Boo runs his thumb over the back of Napoleon’s hand. The feeling sends electricity up Napoleon’s arm. 

“I can come see tomorrow night, can’t I?” 

Napoleon grins. “Of course you can. I’m not going anywhere any time soon.” 

“Good.” Boo’s come out shakey. “Good. Because--I mean, I’m glad that we--”

Napoleon looks at Boo’s nervous smile and stuttering, and feels his own face start to burn. 

Napoleon thinks of himself and Boo in another world, one where they wouldn’t have even met. Where Les Inferno was just a club and Napoleon had parents and Viejo had never heard of the Warlords. Where they’d live miles and miles apart, and no one ever got into drugs or rap, and they were just normal kids.

Napoleon doesn’t know if he’d prefer that one, because then he wouldn’t feel this giddiness, would he? 

And he definitely wouldn’t feel this bravery, the one that allows him to wrap his arms around Boo’s neck and kiss him. 

Boo wraps his arms around Napoleon’s waist and kisses back like his life depends on it. Napoleon leans against the door and  _ yes _ , he prefers this world, the real one. The scary, fucked up real one where he’s survived a million times over, been destroyed and remade again. 

This one, where Boo mutters, “I love you” against Napoleon’s neck and Napoleon knows that it’s true and there are no strings attached. Where Napoleon can say it back with no doubt in his mind. 

Where he can hold the man he loves with all the strength and gratitude in the world. 

Napoleon’s heart slams in his chest, his heartbeat racing. It feels perfect. 


End file.
